He who Fights Dragons
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: Dragon Wars/D-Wars, but you should just read it anyway. Forget the movie. This is quite possibly the best novelization fic for a crappy movie you will ever read. I'm not even going to put a tagline. Read it. Read it NOW. You know you want too. I dare you


cheddarbiscuit Presents:

He Who Fights Dragons.

Summary: (Dragon Wars, or D-war, but really you don't even need to watch it to enjoy this. Yes. I'm that good.) "...But I'm a Reporter."

Disclaimer: D-Wars, believe it or not, is a KOREAN movie. Seeing as I am not Korean, will never be Korean, and have no real interest in it, it cannot claim this movie as my own. Although, it was filmed in America, and stars mostly Americans. Go figure. But, I put a lot of effort into this.

* * *

Pre-story rant:

To explain this movie a little bit, because it is just SO bad its good and very few people actually want to sit down and WATCH a movie like that, and for good reason. It's bad. It is unbelievably bad. It was so bad I had to watch it AGAIN just to confirm how bad it was. The romantic subplot is almost completely without merit, (okay, you're reincarnations of Star-Crossed lovers? Don't you think things are still going a bit too quickly?) The special effects are good, if by 'good effects' you mean everything goes boom, the monsters look just under Lord of the Rings quality, the human mooks are stupid, and the battles between the two go on and on.

Human nature is virtually spat upon (seriously, you're not even going to check to see if any elephants are missing?) but so is the nature of the gods, (Why the fuck doesn't the good Imugi bring hordes of warriors? That friendless, lazy fuck.) so it's all good.

It is one of those movies that, once watched, will sit in your brain and never leave it.

Because it is just soooo bad.

But, if nothing else can be said, let me say this: "Still a better love story than Twilight... But OH MAN does it push it!"

You know what would have made the movie much better? Play the 'the hero is a reporter' element up a bit. Instead of ditching and picking up his cameraman/information hunter (seriously, why can't he look up all possible Sarahs? WTF does he do on his off time? The answer is SLEEP, for Christ's sake!) at odd intervals, have him _film_ the entire movie, like the _Blair Witch Project, _but with DRAGONS, and... less shaking.

Also, it might have helped if everyone was actually KOREAN, because they never, ever, explained how a giant Korean serpent wound up springing forth from the earth in LA. Never. The only explanation I could find was 'because destiny says so' and that is a crappy explanation. Of course, because of great chunk of the movie is English-language, the movie can be marked in America.

Still sucks, though.

The movie in question can be watched on Hulu, for free as of Februrary 2012. I must warn you, it is about an hour and thirty minutes of your life, and maybe another ten staring at the screen and wondering why you're doing this, that you will never get back. Then remember, you're doing this to feed cheddarbiscuit's ego, and that is the noblest cause of all.

And if you ask why _I'm_ doing this? Well... Let's face it. I have the tallent to make a crappy movie into a semi-desent fanfic, and I just love reminding people that I'm the best.

* * *

Chapter one:

I am a reporter. I state the facts as I see them. Sure to err is human and I have the bias of mortality, and it is difficult to remain indifferent when you are frightened and clueless and you just want to break down and curl up. But I am a reporter. I do a lot but I don't lie. I don't stretch the truth. I hedge, I evade, and I cover huge gaps in emergencies. But I do not lie.

So, please, bear with me.

I am not bold and sensational. This is not yellow journalism springing from an intense desire to start a war. No. Nothing like that. I am just the one that goes out and reports. I am not even all that brave and original. I just state the facts and I look pretty. I just stand there like I know what is going on. I hate that. I feel like a scapegoat. A figure head.

I am, of course.

If you call the station at about two in the morning—with about twenty or thirty others in tow—and claim that "There is a giant snake-shaped pit in location X." I am the guy they call at three A.M. and command, "Get up, get your cameraman, and head to location X." I will pick up the phone, call Bruce, and fall back asleep.

So, the funny thing is, my cameraman is the one that comes to get_ me_.

Hilarious, right?

You do not know the half of it.

Bruce is great, I have to tell you—and remember, I state the facts. He has got his own key and he just lets himself in, stomping and slamming doors and making all the noise he can to wake me up. He has to, I'm a heavy sleeper. "Ethan!" he roars, "Ethan!"

I wince a little, but I am half-asleep still. I have been having such weird dreams lately. Bad ones. I am fighting a dragon and I am losing. Horribly. It might be my strategy, of course. It is the _Western_ Middle ages, and I am fighting an _Eastern_ dragon, except it is more like a giant snake or something like that. But, my mind goes _DRAGON_ and I go to pieces on the inside. There is also a standard blonde-princess-in-a-tower motif, but I barely get a chance to look at her because I'm fighting a _dragon_, and I cannot run away because _girl + boy + evil Dragon = Dead Dragon and happily ever after,_ right?

No. No sorry. It equals a dead guy. Because Dragons don't exist, and there for there is not proven method for defeating them, and even then you can't defeat something that does not exist. I am not a philosopher or a mathematician or a physics whiz. I am reporter. I'm pretty sure that is right. So, why I am fighting dragons and not _broadcasting_ some _other_ idiot doing the fighting? Wait, no! I have to focus because she's wishing me luck, but its winning, and oh _great _I just lost my sword and—

"Ethan!" Bruce shouts as the dragon rams his head into my entire _body_ and we slam into the tower. I feel something wet cascading over my face and down my neck and I'm pretty sure it is my _head_ exploding.

I am startled away, sitting strait up in bed and breathing heavily. Bruce is standing over me with a downturned plastic tumbler, and a few drops of water dripped out onto the top of my hair. I shake the water out of my eyes. In his other hand there is a mug of black coffee which he offers to me, "Come on, man."

"I need my beauty sleep." I muttered sarcastically, but no one could tell because I just sounded sleepy. I took a swig of coffee and shook my head, little droplets flew everywhere. I downed the rest of it and got ready in a hurry. I always needed to look my best, so I was careful not to skimp on my makeup. I did not feel my best. I was covered in a sheen of sweat from the nightmare and my eyes were bloodshot. A shower helped my skin, but not my eyes. Fortunately, I had eye drops for that.

I'm not vain.

Okay, okay. Yes I am.

But I am also a reporter. My vanity works to my advantage.

"E!" Bruce shouted, "Let's get a move on."

"Bruce! Are you _trying_ to make me lose an eye?"

Because shouting, "Just a minute, Bruce, I'm doing my eyeliner!" was demeaning.

And it was just a little white on the lower waterline to bring more light into my eyes any way, and... I am a reporter. This is normal.

When I was done, I picked up my necklace from the bedside table and dropped it over my head. It is a ridiculously gaudy thing, with a marbled blue semi-spherical jewel and a flame-like tail of lapis lazuli and golden tails. I usually hide it away under my shirt or my blazer, because it distracts from me, and whatever distracts from me, most likely distracts from what I am saying, and that gets in the way of the news.

I've managed to make it work, somehow, but forming this stuck-in-the-past look, like I came out of the seventies or something. It's not that bad. I find the look suits me, if I keep my hair long and don't look like I'm too stoned, and I drop in a 'groovy' every once in a while. Everyone just assumes I am a seventies otaku, or that my parents were really influential.

I mean, its 2007 now, and I'm twenty five. So I was born in 1982. The seventies were dying out, but my parents _were_ hippies, and hey, seventies fashion _is_ cool. I figure, if there is any justification that is the best I am going to get. Call me stuck in the past, tell me I am trying to remain a child forever, whatever. Some little piece of you is probably right.

But then, why keep then pendant around? You ask. After all, this isn't the seventies and the only bling men your age should sport is a watch, or a wedding ring, or some ridiculous gold-plated, diamond studded _monstrosity_ that says something generally offensive. Well, I do have a watch, and monstrosities are heavy, and I'm single.

The pendant is something I keep because I cannot get rid of it. No matter what I do, it always, _always_ finds its way back to me.

Pawn it off?

Someone mails it back to me, and they never tell me how they got my address, or contact me again.

Sell it on e-bay?

No sale.

Throw it the ocean? Drop it out a helicopter into a forest fire?

It is sitting on the front porch when I get home, like a dog.

Forget to wear it one day?

It _magically transports itself under my pillow_ to guilt trip me.

Apparently, people are huge fans of my pendant. I've never looked, but 'Ethan Kendrick's necklace' might have a Facebook page, and there might be a country-wide network designed to track, pickup and _return_ the thing every time it goes missing, or break into my house and move it every time I don't put it on the morning.

Honestly? It is just a clingy piece of bling. But I know it is not completely useless, because—

"Ethan!"

"Sorry!"

I am a reporter. I do not lie.

I exaggerate, maybe, but I was not exaggerating there.

I hurried into the living room; my blazer tucked under one arm. I was buttoning one cuff on my sleeve, and my shirt was askew. "Okay. Let's go. I'll drive." I offered, "I need to do something to wake up."

Begrudgingly, he let me do so.

We clambered into his car. It was a substantial, formidable thing, able to kill a man at 80 miles per hour. There was plenty of room in the back for his camera, and plenty of room in the front for him. Which was good, because _he_ was a substantial, formidable person. He is a tall guy, a real pragmatist. Of course, he did have his sensitive, softer side, which needed to be protected by a large, durable car.

I am a reporter, I should not be analyzing.

Location X was actually the area around Seven Palms Resort—Burce was the one that retained this information, not me, so by listening to his directions and focusing on the road, I managed to get to the site as bright-eyed and as bushy tailed as I could. And there it was—just as Bruce remembered being told—a giant snake-shaped pit. We could not get a good aerial view (there was a news chopper for that) but it did seem to curve, and go along its way, and curve again. It was dotted with investigators and lined first with yellow tape and second with half-demolished construction trailers.

Bodies were being carried out. Whatever had happened, it had caused damage and it was real, so, so horribly real.

The only thing out of place was the elderly, long haired native American man, who was shouting that the end was near and we had awakened something—presumably something terrible. I wanted _not_ to believe me, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of my mind and a tingling in the back of my neck and a knotting in the pit of my stomach.

It was early in the morning, about seven fifty or eight o'clock. One look around at the vast destruction and all hints of sleep were gone. I swallowed hard and took out the camcorder Bruce let me wave around like an idiot to feel like I was actually contributing something. I could quickly catch things he could miss with his heavier camera, so long as I was not actually on-camera at the moment.

Two police carried the shouting man away, and I ducked under the yellow tape, note pad in pocket and camcorder in hand, and walked up to two men in suits. Both had dark hair and black blazers, and the younger of the two wore a red shirt and tie, while the elder wore a white shirt and blue striped tie. I juggled the notepad and camcorder for a moment as I walked, eventually opening it and fishing out a pen, "Ethan Kendricks, CGNN News. How would you explain the situation here, guys?"

They gave me two stone-serious looks that made my bones chill. What was 'guys' too casual a word? I realized they wanted me to go away, but I was persistent. I was a reporter, after all. It was my _job_ to get straight answers. They _did_ have an explanation, that was why they were here, but they were _not _going to tell me. I thought—at that time, at least— that the older one would rather shoot me than give me a straight answer, which was hilarious in hindsight, really.

"Bizarre explains this. Do yourself a favor, get back behind the barrier. Now."

"No press back here." The other one said quickly. He was young, and just seemed to want to put his two cents in before I walked off.

"Go." The older one commanded me firmly.

Instead of manhandling me to the barrier and making me leave, they just marched away. I frowned and watched them go, but because I was not being physically forced to vacate the area, I remained—hey, I tell the truth, but I never said I did not break rules!—and looked around. It was bizarre alright. Surreal. It was like a giant snake had risen forth from the ground and that Native American man's shouting echoed in my ears, _the prophecy proved true... the beast has risen... HIDE ALL YOUR PRETTY THINGS_.

Wait, what?

Hey, what was that?

My eyes were drawn almost at once to two forensic investigators hunched over in the sand and gently brushing off a slab of stone in the rubble. At least, it _looked_ like a slab of stone from this distance. In the dust and dirt that surrounded it, it was almost impossible to see anything completely intact and solid. I poped off the camera's lens, took out the side screen and zoomed in on it. It was not smooth, it was ridged, with a raised ridge in the middle. I could not figure out what a slab of stone like that would come from, but what, aside from steel and stone, could survive this?

What if it was not stone?

"HEY!"

I turned my head quickly, and slammed the camcorder's screen back into place, shutting it off. I was ready to run behind the flimsy safety of yellow plastic tape, but it was Bruce that was walking towards me, not the men in suits, "Come on, E, let's do the broadcast and get out of here. I've got a bad feeling."

"Okay."

We walked to the yellow tape border, and he handed me a microphone. I frowned at it. I had nothing to go on, nothing to really say. I looked around one more time, shrugged, and lied.

I hated lying, but at least I was lying on my own free will this time, and besides, they needed _something._

"I'm near Seven Palms Resort where a large recreational facility was under construction, for the surviving resort. Earlier this morning an explosive accident left the area decimated. While there is no official body count, the bodies that are found are hardly recognizable, and authorities place the number around seven hundred. Investigators are still searching for the cause of this terrible scene; but the damage is so sever, eyewitnesses have yet to be found. Whether this was a construction accident, or possible terrorism, has yet to be determined. One thing, however, is certain, tragedy has struck Seven Palms Resort, as the bodies still continue to turn up."

"I'm Ethan Kendricks, CGNN news"

After a short pause, I slashed my hand across my neck, silently telling Bruce to cut the signal and be done with it. That was a wrap. He sighed heavily as he let the camera fall to his side again, massaging his shoulder from its weight, "You just pulled that out of your ass, didn't you?"

"Yes. No one would talk to me."

He smirked and shrugged, and remarked, "Well, no one would care anyway."

Confused and slightly miffed and wondering, I climbed back into the car. I had not given much of a story and I was tired again. I tried not to yawn for Bruce's sake, because he was driving now. Instead I focused on the recording I had made. It had seemed like a scale, but that was silly! What had a scale that big? It was probably all in my head, and in order to clear this delusion, I watched the recording over and over again. It looked like a dragon scale. It looked like a dragon scale. It looked like a dragon scale.

But, I knew it could not be!

And yet, it seemed like something I remembered vaguely. Something from long ago, back when I was a sweet, curious, blue-eyed boy... which is hilarious because my eyes are actually hazel.[1.]

* * *

1. The child playing Ethan in the flash back has blue eyes, older Ethan has dark eyes, nearing brown/hazel. This is a crowning moment of FAIL because the flashback ends with a CLOSE UP of young Ethan's eyes morphing into older Ethan. Rather than make a child put in brown contacts or an adult put in blue, the eyes morph seamlessly... from blue to brown.


End file.
